


nowhere to breathe easy

by palmviolet



Series: prompt fills [1]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Fluff, Hopper Lives, Hurt/Comfort, Post Season 2, Post Season 3, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre Season 1, mentioned alcoholism, mentioned domestic violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-28
Packaged: 2020-07-12 10:10:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19944445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/palmviolet/pseuds/palmviolet
Summary: three times joyce byers and jim hopper share a sunrise.





	1. June 1979

**Author's Note:**

> this is based on the anonymous prompt ‘watching the sun rise/set together’.

Hopper’s already pleasantly warm and tipsy when he arrives at the station that morning, but gradually he sobers up until that evening he’s irritable and somewhat hungover, and bored out of his goddamn mind. He wants to go back to his trailer and watch Hawaii Five-O all night with a beer and a smoke and his rattling bottle of pills but he can’t, because for some reason there’s bar trouble. On a Tuesday. In fucking Hawkins. 

So he swings round there, disappointingly sober, and doesn’t get back to the station to book in the latest drunkard until at least three-thirty am. (Even New York was rarely this bad, he thinks, but then again he was a homicide detective there, not a chief in charge of everything and nothing because in Hawkins the two are one and the same.)

She’s waiting for him.

Long hair tangled and loose, nails bitten to the quick. She’s thinner, bonier than she was back in high school, but those eyes are the same. Those same damn eyes that had boys falling at her feet, so large and fierce - only now they’re lowered to the floor, fragile, reddened with tears.

“Joyce,” he says softly. She looks up, jumps to her feet from the hard plastic of the chairs they make people wait on. 

“Hopper- I’ve been waiting over an hour-”

“Why?” he asks wearily, scrubbing a hand over his face. He just wants to be snoring on his sofa right now. He doesn’t want to deal with whatever new crisis this is.

“Lonnie-” she starts, and breaks off. Seems almost ashamed, and he realises his own face has twisted into a bitter look. She bites her lip. “Lonnie was arrested. Drunk and disorderly, or some crap like that-”

“Yeah, but it’s not crap, is it? Powell’s lazy, he’s not an idiot. He wouldn’t have brought him in if he didn’t do anything.” Something in Hopper defies the reluctance on Joyce’s face. She’s not facing reality, and she has to. Has to realise her husband is a piece of scum.

“Hopper, I need him home.”

“Why?” he says again, getting out a cigarette. She rolls her eyes, flaps up her hands desperately but no words come out. “Huh, so you don’t really need him home.”

“I do,” she insists. She’s eyeing his cigarette but he doesn’t feel moved to give it to her. He feels selfish, spiteful tonight. “Please, the kids are out but if they come home in the morning and he’s not there-”

He feels cold, then, and foolish. Imagines little Will, eight years old, two years older than Sara would have been. Pictures him coming home from some sleepover or other to an empty house. Running through the rooms, asking for his dad. Joyce having to explain to him, to Jonathan, where Lonnie really is.

It gets to Hopper, goddamn it. He sighs.

“Fuck’s sake. Fine, I’ll see what I can do.”

He goes past her into his office while she perches on the edge of her seat like a wary, wild bird. He just wants to file the papers, and get her the fuck out of here because honestly? Something about her presence puts him on edge. Not in a bad way, necessarily, but like everything’s heightened. The complete opposite of the drug-induced haze he likes to dwell in. And right now everything is tender. He doesn’t want her to add salt to his wounds.

But he comes across a problem. He goes to the cabinet where they keep all the paperwork, the release forms, all the proper protocol - and it’s locked. He gives it an experimental tug, and a harder one when it doesn’t open. He’s reduced to kicking it when Joyce appears from around the corner, wide-eyed. “What are you doing?”

He stops, scrubs a hand over his face. “Flo- Flo’s got the goddamn keys. To the goddamn filing cabinet.”

“And Flo…?”

“... doesn’t get in until eight thirty,” he finishes for her. “Lonnie’s not going anywhere.”

She worries at her lip, pulls distractedly at a loose thread on her sleeve. All these anxious tics that seem to have crept up on her, since high school. She was never this highly strung. “And there’s only one key? Isn’t that a bit-”

“Yeah, I know, Joyce, okay? But this is Hawkins. If it was New York, maybe things would work a bit faster. But this is Hawkins, where nothing ever happens. Police hours are nine to five. There is no night shift.”

She sighs, and it’s like all the energy goes out of her. Her shoulders slump. “So I’ll wait.”

“You’ll wai- Joyce, it’s four am. Go home.”

She shakes her head. “I said I’m gonna wait.”

This is ridiculous. He wants to go home himself. There’s a six pack of beers with his name on it and more to the point his _bed-_

But she’s not okay, that much is clear. He can’t just leave her here, not without finding out why she’s making such crazy decisions as these. Why she’s holding on to the image of Lonnie like he might disappear, slip through her fingers like dust. Why that would be such a bad thing, in the end.

So he lets his posture soften. “He’s not going anywhere. He’ll still be here in the morning, and I’ll release him without charging him the second Flo gets in. Okay?”

“I know- but-” She hesitates. “I don’t want to be alone in that house. Just _waiting-”_

Huh. Somehow he knows the feeling. God, he knows the fucking feeling, even though their situations are so utterly different. “Okay. But at least try to get some sleep on the sofa in the break room. I know it’s not much-”

Again, she’s shaking her head. “I couldn’t sleep,” she says. “I rarely can.”

It’s little wonder the shadows under her eyes are engraved, and suddenly he realises it’s like looking in a mirror. What happened to her, he wonders? What is still happening to her, behind closed doors? What might happen if she isn’t here at eight thirty on the dot to pick Lonnie up?

He makes a snap decision, and starts talking before he can change his mind. “Come on, then.” He starts walking across the room and looks back impatiently when she doesn’t follow. “Come on.”

After a moment’s hesitation she joins him, follows him up the steps and out onto the roof. It’s not a great view, since the building’s only one story, but the sky is clear and the stars are bright. 

“You come up here often?” She indicates the two chairs positioned haphazardly near the edge. 

He shrugs. When he can’t face his empty trailer, the vacant chatter of the TV, the rank sweat of his sofa and the clatter of the bottles on the floor, he spends his nights up here. Watches the stars and tries to map out the constellations he used to teach Sara about, only he’s beginning to forget them all. 

But he can’t tell Joyce any of this. Not yet. “Flo doesn’t like me smoking in the station.”

She nods, like this makes sense. Maybe it does. He’s not sure. She takes a seat and stupidly he’s distracted by watching the way she does it - folding herself down carelessly, not elegantly but with a certain unconscious grace. Then he curses himself, because he’s pretty sure it’s out of bounds to wax lyrical about some other man’s wife. Nevermind that he’s certain Lonnie’s never paid a single moment’s attention to the way Joyce sits down.

She takes out her own pack of cigarettes and lights one, the quick flicker of flame lighting up her face in warm shadows. Then she exhales and watches the sky silently, while he watches her.

“I was sorry to hear about your mom, Hop,” she says softly. “I know it happened a while ago now, but-”

He shakes his head. His eyes are dry, but in a moment they might not be and he doesn’t want to cry in front of her. He really, really doesn’t. “It’s okay.” He doesn’t say what they’re both thinking, that the loss of his mom pales in comparison to the loss of his daughter. He hopes Joyce is wise enough not to go there either.

“Thank you. For waiting with me. I-” She looks down at the gritty roof beneath them. “I don’t really like being alone, not anymore. Not since having the kids.”

Kids, plural. “How are they? Your boys?”

A sudden smile breaks out on her face in the gloom. “They’re good. Really good. Jonathan’s twelve now, Will’s eight. They’re busy, they have friends- well, Will more so than Jonathan, but he’s always been a loner type.”

“Not like you or me, then,” Hopper quips. Her smile is turned on him, and the force of it- it knocks him sideways. 

“He’s not like you or me,” she confirms. “Neither is Will. Thank god,” she says, and there’s laughter in her voice, “because I can’t imagine parenting either of us. It would be a goddamn nightmare.”

“Eh, I don’t know. We were alright.”

She’s quiet for a moment. “Yeah. Yeah, we were.”

They relax into a comfortable silence for a while, smoking and staring at the stars. Hawkins is peaceful at night. Quiet. The sounds of traffic from the interstate are faint, intermittent. If he looks up high enough he can pretend there’s no town, only the sky, and he can unmoor himself from the ground and float away into space. Find his home beside Orion the Hunter, and the Big Dipper. 

“Joyce-” he starts, sitting up, because there’s something he has to get off his chest. “About Lonnie-”

“Don’t. Just- don’t. I’m not in the mood for your recriminations- your I-told-you-so’s-”

“I wasn’t going to-”

“Yeah,” she says bitterly. “Yeah, you were.”

He sighs. “I just- I need to know, Joyce. Is he hurting you?”

Her silence tells him everything he needs to know. He wonders where she’s hiding it, under her t-shirt and jeans. Her wrists are unblemished, so far as he can tell in the dark. Still, he feels rage flood through him anyway. “I swear to god, Joyce- let me charge the asshole-”

“No!” she shouts suddenly. “No, please- god, please don’t. He’d only make me pay bail and then we’d be stuck with court fees and the kids-” He hears her take a breath. “We’re dragged through the mud enough in this town as it is. They can’t handle anything else.”

He sighs. “Please, divorce him. Please. I won’t-” It physically pains him to say it. “I won’t charge him, but you gotta divorce him, Joyce. It’s not right, him treating you like that-”

“You don’t know shit about it,” she mutters, but her resolve is weakening. 

He sits back in his chair. It’s all he can hope for, really. It’s not a flat out denial.

He fishes in his pocket, produces his flask. He doesn’t know why he didn’t think of it earlier, in fact. He’s been dying for a drink since the afternoon. But ladies first - he still has his manners - so he offers it to Joyce. She takes it slowly, warily almost. Sips it and immediately screws her face up in disgust. “What the hell is this, Hop? Jet fuel? Jesus.”

“Cheapest whiskey money can buy,” he proclaims as he takes it back, and yeah. His tone is definitely a little too proud of that. 

_“Why?_ I mean jesus, we’re not teenagers anymore- surely you can afford something a little nicer-”

Sure, yeah, he can. But decent whiskey’s not for wallowing in. Decent whiskey’s for chasing a nice meal, and for sharing with friends and lovers. This is the kind of shit perfect for nights alone wishing he didn’t exist - Joyce doesn’t deserve it, but he does.

He relishes the burn as it scalds its way down his throat. Relishes the faint haze that begins to kick in. “Whiskey’s whiskey, right?”

“Yeah, if you’re trying to get drunk. Why the hell do you carry that around in a flask, Hop? With your uniform?”

It’s his turn to look away. “Come on, it’s not like no one knows,” he mutters. “You’re not the only one they gossip about.”

“Yeah, but you always said-” She’s standing up now, hands fidgeting by her sides. He’s not sure what’s got her so worked up. “You always said you’d never turn out like your dad. And now you are - you’re like Lonnie, and your dad, and my dad-”

“Yeah, but I’m not anyone’s dad, am I?”

Silence descends. Joyce is biting her lip again, and her chest is heaving like she’s run a marathon but she hasn’t, she’s only taken a step closer to him, and on instinct - anything to stop that fucking worried frown - he grabs her by the waist and pulls her closer. Collides their lips. Nearly loses himself in the heat of it-

And she’s kissing back.

She’s kissing back, and it’s like high school all over again as she moves to straddle him and her lips part under his, his tongue gently roams into her mouth, her hands fist in his hair as his own clutch at her waist. God, he’d forgotten this. Forgotten how beautiful she is, and how sinful. Sinfully good, because technically she’s committing adultery right now but is it really adultery when her husband is abusing her and fucking other girls every night and her lips taste so good on his? When she’s kissing him with more heat than she probably ever kissed Lonnie in thirteen goddamn years-

“God, Joyce-” he whispers. He’d be happy to take her right now, right here on this fucking station roof, and by her body language he’s pretty sure she’d let him-

But then she freezes. Stills against him, and pulls back. Runs a hand through her long hair and tangles it even further, and god all he wants to do is to press another kiss to that tender column of neck-

But she’s caught like a deer in the headlights, like something feral backed into a corner. She’s trembling as she snatches herself away. “Hopper- I can’t-”

“Don’t say you’re married,” he snarls despite himself. “Don’t you dare fucking say that- not after everything-”

“But I am!” she bursts out, and are those tears shining in her eyes? “I am, goddamn it, you know I am, and I can’t-” She sighs. “I can’t do this again. I can’t be torn between you and Lonnie, not again. Besides-”

“Besides what?” he presses.

“Besides, you’re goddamn fucking right. He’d probably kill me if he knew we did anything. He’d kill me for this- a kiss-”

“So divorce him!” Hopper’s voice is loud, desperate. 

“For fuck’s sake- just because you want to get me into bed-”

“Jesus- you can’t think that. You think that’s all this is? You think I don’t care about you?”

“Do you?” she challenges. Her face is in shadow, now. He can’t see her expression.

He stands up too. He’s not gonna listen to this, this _bullshit._ Who is he kidding? These are the same issues they had in high school, the same issues they’re having now. Joyce is different, which just makes it worse, but her insecurities are the same. Her fears. And maybe in high school they were justified but now they’re just irrational.

“I’m not listening to this,” he says, as he moves to the stairs. Then he stops, looks back at her. She’s lit in a rosy golden hue by the coming dawn, the sky straining to lighten with the sun. It turns her hair to spun gold. “Joyce- in high school- everything was different. But now- now I’d drop everything. For you.”

She shakes her head, a little sadly. “Oh, Hop, god- you can say that. You don’t have anything to drop. You don’t have anything to lose and I- I have so goddamn much.”

He stares at her. It stings. It really fucking stings - because it’s true. Joyce has a husband, two kids, a life - what does he have? A shitty trailer, bottles of beer mouldering under his sofa. Soaps on tv and women in bed whose names he forgets.

“Fuck you,” he says. It’s immature, rude, and it makes her flinch, but he’s done with confronting painful truths. He’s done with opening up his fucking heart.

He leaves her there on the rooftop, watching the sun rise alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two more chapters to come!! they should be up fairly soon :))
> 
> title is from crazy on you by heart.
> 
> i see joyce in these years as looking like winona as melanie fall in turks and caicos - long hair, no bangs, very very thin. go look her up if you want a reference :)
> 
> let me know what you think of this!!


	2. January 1985

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> he’s no hero - but he does what he can. for his girls.

When he gets the call, immediately he knows it’s her. He hears the phone ring once - once - and he throws off the covers and fumbles for his shoes. El is fast asleep in her room and he scribbles a note, pins it to the fridge with one of the novelty magnets she likes. Then he’s in his Blazer and is tearing down the street because Joyce’s voice on the phone-

She sounded so small, so devastated. All she said was _Hop_ and he dropped everything, as he always does. As he always will.

When he arrives his watch reads five am and he’s gotta be at work in four hours but this is more important. This is paramount. He unlocks her door with the key she gave him - pressed into his hand, with lips in a thin line that warned him against protesting - and finds her smoking vacantly on the floor beside the telephone, the receiver couched uselessly in her lap.

“Joyce,” he whispers, moving towards her, and she looks up so sharply he fears she might get whiplash. 

“Hop,” she says. Her eyes are swollen and red, her hands trembling around her cigarette. “Hop- I-“

He leans down, holds out a hand. “Hey, you’re okay. Come sit down somewhere more comfortable than the floor, huh?”

She stares at him like he’s a stranger come into her house, like he’s a doctor telling her she needs surgery. No familiarity, only fear. But she takes his hand and lets him pull her to her feet. Lets him guide her over to the kitchen table and make her a mug of tea, though he hesitates to leave her sitting by herself.

She’s silent throughout. Finally he presses the mug into her hands and lets his fingers hover over hers, offering touch but not forcibly taking it. A gesture of support, that she barely seems to notice.

“Was it another dream?” he asks softly, finally, when it becomes clear she’s not going to talk on her own.

She nods, just barely. “Bob- he- and then you-“

He shuts his eyes, drops his head. Yeah, he dragged her away from all of it. Maybe it haunts him too. What he wasn’t able to do. Who he wasn’t able to save. Her goddamn screams, the anguish in her voice, her face, her small frame as she pushed and shoved against him. 

Joyce has been blaming him, but only barely. She’s been blaming herself most of all. Hasn’t been eating, has barely been sleeping. It’s been a few months now and the incidence of nightmares bad enough to require him is getting rarer - but when it happens, it’s bad. And these are just the times he knows about. According to Jonathan - and Jonathan doesn’t say much, so when he does Hopper knows he should be worried - well, the picture he paints is tragic, and concerning. Like Will’s recovering but Joyce isn’t, and at least Will has friends. Joyce only has Hopper.

Hopper, who should have done more. Who should have somehow ensured they all got out, all of them. Hopper who failed in his duty of care.

“I’m sorry, Joyce,” he says as he lights his own cigarette. It’s the least he can say but he knows it won’t help.

To his surprise she looks confused, puffy eyes lifting to his with that adorable knot between her brows. “What? Why?”

“I should have done more,” he grinds out, and yeah, this is definitely the wrong thing to say to someone suffering from PTSD and survivor’s guilt and myriad other things. He shouldn’t be laying his own feelings about this shit on her, really he shouldn’t. But she asked.

He almost jumps out of his skin when her hand lands on his. She’s still trembling slightly, almost vibrating against his skin, but he’s never felt a touch so warm. “It’s not- it’s not your fault, Hop, jesus. Your fault?” She laughs, and it echoes bitterly in the silent room. “We both know it’s my fault.”

He moves his hand, twists it so he captures her fingers in his own. “No we fucking don’t, Joyce. You gotta stop blaming yourself.”

“Pair of hypocrites, aren’t we?” she says drily, emptily, as she stares down at their conjoined hands. “But I can’t. I can’t stop- stop fucking seeing it- and he’s reaching out- pointing at me- like if only I’d done something- not gotten him involved in the first place-“

“Joyce, stop.” She’s spiralling again, back into that panic he heard over the phone. He got here too late to calm her out of the first one but he won’t let her fall down into it again. 

“But the worst thing-“ and her eyes have gone distant again, staring unseeing at some point far away “-is that tonight- and not just tonight but other nights too, too many nights- it’s you I see. It’s you that the creatures tear to shreds and I can’t get to you, and it’s everything-“

She breaks off, and he stares.

“It’s me?” he croaks, voice barely audible. 

“Yeah. Yeah, it’s you, and then I just feel so goddamn guilty on top of everything else-“

“Do you wish it had been me?”

Her gaze snaps to his. His question is quiet, matter-of-fact. There’s no anger in it, only simple acceptance. He wouldn’t be surprised if she did. “No- no, of course not-“

Really? Because if he thinks about it logically - really, truly logically - she should. If she had to choose between Bob and Hopper she should choose Bob to live and Hopper to die, because she chose Bob in life. She was gonna move to Maine with him, for fuck’s sake. How is this any different?

But apparently it is, because she’s staring at him like he’s lost his mind. “How can you even- how can you possibly-“

“Simple question, Joyce,” he says. Takes a drag of his cigarette as he watches her casually.

“Fuck you,” she says quietly. She’s crying again, he sees. Silent tears spilling from her eyes and dripping down her cheeks. Shit. She brushes them away impatiently and stands. “I need- I need some air.”

“Joyce-” he starts abortively, but she’s gone. And her tea’s gone cold, untouched, so he moves to the sink and pours it out. Watches it trickling down the drain until only the ashy dregs are left. She’s going to freeze to death out there, he realises belatedly. It’s the end of January and it’s been a cold one - colder than usual. Snow almost every day, the nights drawing in so dark and close it’s easy to forget what sunlight even feels like. It just makes grief worse, he knows that. The weather. The constant darkness, the frigid wind cutting you to the bone no matter how many layers you’re bundled up in. Sara died in October. And Octobers are cold in New York anyway, but this one-

He moves to the door and grabs Joyce’s ratty old coat from its hook. Then, thinking better of it, just shrugs his own heavy coat off and holds it in his hands as a peace offering as he steps outside. 

She’s sitting on that creaky swinging bench, the one he’s been meaning to oil for her for weeks now but hasn’t got round to. Her head is in her hands. But at the sound of his approach she looks up, smudges away fresh tears in the gloom. “Hey,” she says, voice just as creaky as the swing. “I’m sorry- for running out on you-”

He shakes his head. Drapes his coat around her shoulders without even asking because he can see her shivering. The air is frosty, so cold it hurts to breathe. Errant flutters of snow drift past them, though they stay dry under the awning. 

He settles down beside her, trying not to wince as the bench makes ominous sounds under him. “I’m gonna build you a new bench, Joyce,” he says. 

And stiffens, as he feels her press into his side. She’s warm, despite the cold. Soft and small against him. “Like you were gonna oil the chain on this one?”

The teasing tone is a goddamn relief. He lets an easy smile come onto his face, though he knows she can’t see it. “No, like I fixed your fridge after those idiot kids stuffed a demodog in it.”

“Okay,” she says, tone still teasing. He’s glad, because the fridge is still a sore topic. She’d screamed when she opened it, throat jumping with panic, and he’d yelled at the kids a little louder than necessary. And of course the door was broken, the hinges spent by the weight of the goddamn thing. Joyce had said to him then, privately and quietly with wide, worried eyes, that she couldn’t afford a new one. That they’d be eating tinned goods and drinking coffee without milk for the foreseeable - so one day he came over with his dad’s old toolkit (the only useful thing he’d inherited from the asshole) when Joyce was at work, and presented to her arriving home, gleaming with pride, a perfectly made cafe-au-lait. 

(“Okay, Napoleon,” she’d quipped at his less-than-perfect french, and laughed - maybe to hide the grateful tears he saw gathering in her eyes, that she hurried to wipe away.)

He lights a fresh cigarette and offers it to her. She takes a drag, and he can feel the rise and fall of her chest against him. Then she hands it back and nestles closer into his side, resting her head on his shoulder. “Thank you,” she whispers into the dark. “For- for being here. Not just tonight, but every night. I don’t know- I couldn’t do this without you.”

Spoken so casually, only it’s not casual at all. The dark lends itself to such perfect, perfect intimacy that it leaves him breathless, startled. Somewhere along the way he’s become indispensable to her, to her family. He’s become a fixture in their house, like a load-bearing wall. Maybe it would all come tumbling down if he wasn’t here. Maybe Joyce and her kids would be buried in the rubble.

“Of course, Joyce. Of course I’ll be here. Always.” It feels like a promise, but it’s all he can say - and he means it. God, he means it. If she marries him or if she tells him to leave - he’ll always drop everything the second she says his name, no matter what.

After a while of silence he realises she’s fallen asleep, her breaths quiet and soft in the gloom. And he doesn’t move. He finishes his cigarette and stubs it out carefully, trying his hardest not to jostle, to disturb her. It can’t be comfortable for her, sitting slumped against him in the bitter cold, but he can’t bring himself to wake her, to take her inside. Her sleep is peaceful and god knows she needs it. 

It’s nearly half seven when she stirs, but it’s not to wake. Light is creeping over the tops of the trees like embers burning hot in a forge, the sky brightening with the beginnings of brilliant red, and Joyce’s slow breathing has quickened with panic. 

“Joyce,” he whispers. She doesn’t wake, only curls further into him with a fragile, broken murmur. “Joyce,” he says again, and touches her arm. It’s only gentle, but she jerks upright with a cry and a look of panic that breaks his heart. “Joyce- look at me, it’s okay, you’re okay.” Tentatively he takes her hand, trying to ground her here, to anchor her down.

“God, Hop-” she gets out, before choking on a sob and dissolving into tears in his arms. He holds her close, holds her tight, murmurs soothing nothings into her hair. He wants to take this pain away from her. He’d do anything to be able to, to just hunt it down, cast it out-

It’s the way El used to look at pain, when she was oh-so-small and fragile. She’d ask him to make the hurt stop, make the nightmares go away, not with the quiet acceptance of someone who knows he can’t but with the terrified optimism of a girl who values him as a hero. He’s no hero - but he does what he can. For his girls.

“I want this to be over,” she whispers into the thick flannel of his shirt. Well-worn words, passed between them like a sharing platter. “God, Hop, I want to stop feeling like this.”

He says nothing, only holds her tighter. The dawn lights up her face - the tears shine brighter, but so do her eyes. Together they watch the sun come up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i almost cried writing this lol
> 
> here we get the intersection of joyce & hopper’s grief, both their ptsds interacting. he knows what it’s like but still he can’t help but wonder what would have happened if...
> 
> i love these two so much. you have no idea. i wrote this listening to a lorde playlist and honestly i kinda wanna change the title to a lorde lyric because it fits better but you know, you live and learn.
> 
> let me know what you think!! i love hearing from my readers xxx


	3. July 1987

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> she climbs up beside him, settling in warm against his side. fitting so naturally in the crook of his arm. like a puzzle piece.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> theme for this chapter is a world alone by lorde.

“I can’t believe we’re doing this, Hop.”

He takes his eyes off the road to smirk at her. She’s leaning her forehead against the cool glass of the window, tired eyes flickering open and shut. Hair in loose waves around her shoulders, vest top cut just low enough to tease him.

“Old times’ sake, you know? And it’s not my fault we never get a moment alone anymore. Dawn is our best bet. We did discuss this.”

“Did we?” She yawns. “I don’t think daytime Joyce likes early morning Joyce very much.”

“It’ll be worth it.” He glances up at the sky, still dark, still clear and scattered with stars. “I promise.”

She sleeps the rest of the way and half of him is tempted to leave her like that - curled up in the seat, face so peaceful it makes him melt - but there’s a reason they came out here. They’re not missing this, not for the world. So he gently shakes her awake and she blinks at him sleepily - eyes open and unguarded, no longer hidden by hair. She’s grown her bangs out, finally, and she looks younger, freer. More like she used to in high school. The stresses of the past few years have left their mark, sure, but more often than not these days her expression is calm, balanced. They’ve found a quiet sort of healing together, both of them.

It’s a blissfully cool night, which makes a change after the blistering heat they’ve had for the last few weeks. He sees goosebumps prickling on her bare arms and without a word he passes her the sweater he left in the backseat for this exact purpose - and she slips it on gratefully, even as he regrets how it covers her up. 

“Stop being creepy,” she says, head still buried in the wool. She emerges and fixes him with a raised eyebrow.

“Just looking,” he says. “Admiring.”

“Asshole.” She leans forward and kisses him lightly on the lips, but pulls away when he tries to deepen it. “It’s way too early for this.”

“And I thought El wasn’t a morning person,” he grumbles. “You’re way, way worse.”

He opens the door and climbs out, moving to sit on the hood of the car. It’s not so big, not so flashy as the Blazer. More practical. When they’ve got the income to spare he’s gonna buy something retro, cool. Maybe another Oldsmobile, like his dad’s.

He misses the authority of the Blazer, though. And the uniform. Maybe he’ll go back to it, one day. Pick up policing in their new town. He’d probably never make Chief, though, because he’s lazy and stuff actually happens in Berry, Illinois. Real, human stuff. Theft, vandalism, the occasional assault. Even a murder or two. And he doesn’t want to throw himself into work. He wants to spend every second he can with his family, after being so long away.

A year and a half. Nineteen months. Untold numbers of days, if he cares to count - which he did, at the time. Made a tally on the wall of his cell with the end of his spoon based on the frequency of meals, which weren’t all that frequent. It served the dual purpose of sharpening said spoon, until it was more shiv than spoon, and now he has the gruesome kudos of being someone who killed a commie soldier with a spoon.

It sounds funny, when he says it aloud. He’s found himself laughing at it almost spasmodically in the past. Joyce doesn’t find it funny. Doesn’t find any of it funny, so he’s learnt not to joke about it. She goes very quiet and still when he mentions it, his ‘year abroad’. And she’s woken with panic and his name on her lips enough times since he got back for him to recognise-

The nineteen months were hard for her too. She’s made torturing herself into a fine art, and at least he languished knowing there was a reason for it all. Knowing he rotted away in the godforsaken cold because he saved them, saved her, and putting it like that it’s a small price to pay.

(This is what he tells himself, at least - what he kept on telling himself through the beatings and the loneliness and the solitary-induced hallucinations.)

She climbs up beside him, settling in warm against his side. Fitting so naturally in the crook of his arm. Like a puzzle piece.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispers. 

It is. They’re at Lovers’ Lake, an old haunt of theirs from eons ago, way back in high school when they were just Joyce and Jim and didn’t have nightmares at all. It’s just the same as it always was - the trees, the sky, the wide expanse of water dark and still. 

“Peace and quiet at last,” he remarks. 

She laughs. “God, it’s nice.”

“I’m gonna miss them, though. El and Will, and all those other goddamn kids. When they leave.”

She’s quiet for a moment, and when he turns to look at her he sees she’s wiping at her eyes. “Sorry,” she says with a choked laugh in her voice. “I just- I never thought-“ She sighs. “After Lonnie left I was just _Mom_. The boys were my whole life. I couldn’t even think about them leaving eventually because then- well, what was I gonna do with myself? Probably work at Melvald’s til the day I died, eating TV dinners for eternity-“

Unexpectedly she takes his hand, her fingers warm and soft.

“But now I have you. And I don’t have to think about- about being alone anymore, even though Jonathan’s gone to college and Will and El only have a couple years left before they do too- because, well-“

It’s dark, but he’s pretty sure she’s blushing. Her gaze drops. Her hand retracts from his and leaves him cold. But he touches her cheek, moves a lock of hair out of her face with a gentle hand. “God, you don’t think I felt lonely? I was so goddamn alone before you, before El. Maybe that’s why I was clinging on so tight to her- too tight- because I knew that if I lost her, I’d be all alone again. I’d be alone and I couldn’t face it, but then I was away-“

He feels her flinch, but he presses on.

“I was away and everything changed, and I came back and you were a family, all four of you. _My_ family. And god, I promise, we’re never gonna be alone again. Not when we have each other. Okay?”

She’s so close to him he can see the tiny creases on her forehead, the little groove in her lip where she worries at it with her teeth. Can lose himself in her huge, bottomless eyes. “Okay,” she whispers, and she’s so close it ghosts over him like a sigh. 

He kisses her again chastely, his hand moving naturally to wind in her hair, her own resting on his shoulders. When they move apart she’s smiling.

“Our last night in Hawkins, huh?” He reaches behind him, produces the champagne and the two glasses he’d made sure to pack. She gapes at him a little.

“If that’s not dollar store fizz then I think you brought the wrong person on this date, Hop.”

“What, we can’t be classy once in a while?” It is, in fact, from the local off-license, but it’s the most expensive bottle he could find there. (At ten dollars, it wasn’t much.) He opens it with an effort and foam cascades down the side, splattering both of their jeans. Joyce bursts out laughing while he scowls and does his best to pour out their glasses.

“Think maybe you should stick to beer in future,” she says, nudging him on the shoulder.

True enough, when he takes a sip he has to wrinkle his nose in vague disgust. “You’re goddamn right. This shit is overrated.”

“It’s not so bad,” she says. She clinks her glass against his. “Our last night in Hawkins,” she repeats. “Well, until the next time.”

“Huh, yeah, I’m sure our kids will drag us back here soon enough.” It will be different, though. This was his victory tour, his ‘hey-I-survived’ tour. Saying hi to Flo and Powell and Callahan. The first time he’s been back since July ‘85 - two whole years ago, now. There had been something tentative in Joyce’s face as they’d crossed the state line, as they’d passed the ‘Welcome to Hawkins’ sign (all cynical graffiti long since removed). Like she was worried about how he’d react to this - to all this. The same old streets, when he’s not the same old man anymore.

He pretends. He pretends like he can’t speak Russian with a brutal, broken accent. He pretends like he doesn’t panic at the cold, just like Will only for a far more human reason. He pretends like those first few months home weren’t awful, feverish, while he tried to repair muscles that had atrophied and couldn’t bear to shower with the door closed. But Joyce sees right through him, through all the pretense. Joyce knows.

But he was fine. Hawkins was fine. It’s not home anymore, which he guesses helps. Home is Joyce’s average-sized house on its average-sized street in Berry, Illinois, where both Will and El have their own rooms and there’s a spare for Jonathan when he’s home from college. Where Hopper sleeps beside Joyce every night.

(Where she put him back together, piece by piece, after months and months of breaking apart alone.)

He wanted to do one thing, though. He wanted to share one last dawn here with her - one last dawn, before he buries his ghosts and leaves them behind. One last memory to make, in the spot where they made so many. 

“You’re not gonna ask me to marry you, are you?” she asks suddenly, out of the blue. Her voice is hesitant, though it’s too dark for him to read her face. He supposes it’s not an outlandish guess - the effort of the time, the setting, the bottle of champagne. 

He huffs out an awkward, surprised laugh. “No, I wasn’t planning on it.” He’s quiet for a moment. “Why? Is that- is that something you’d want?”

“No,” she says immediately, but it’s hard to feel offended when she’s pressed so close to his side. “I just- I think we’ve both had enough of marriage, right? I mean, it didn’t really work out for either of us.”

“No,” he agrees. “No, it didn’t.” He pauses. “Guess I should take back that ring, huh?”

He can almost _sense_ her heart sinking, and his laugh is guilty. Maybe it was a little cruel.

“Don’t worry, I haven’t and I won’t buy you a ring.”

She shoves at him lightly. “God, you’re an asshole,” she mutters, but she’s smiling too. “And you shouldn’t, marriage or lack of aside, because I’ll lose it. I lost the one Lonnie got me in about a week. Luckily it was dirt cheap.”

It makes him frown, even as her tone is light. Yeah, she’s right. They’re both done with marriage.

The sky above them is lightening, fading into rose-tinted lavender. Stars winking out. Soon the sun will appear, and cast its heroic glow over the gently rippling water, bathe them in glorious rays. But for now the light is dim and soft, lending a hazy quality to the air. He moves his eyes from the sky to Joyce to see that she’s watching it too, face tilted up, hair falling back to reveal her long slender neck. She’s beautiful here in the pre-dawn. Picture-perfect - the light so subtle, so tender it’s almost dreamlike. And not a bad dream, not this time. A dream he doesn’t want to wake up from - and hopefully never will.

“I love you,” he lets out as the sun tips over the horizon.

She’s golden as she turns to look at him, eyes dark and unreadable but mouth quirking in a faint smile. It could be a moment of panic - it’s the first time he’s said it to her, said it to anyone save Diane, Sara, El - but as the sunlight spills over them all he feels is peace. He’s loved her for a long goddamn time, and soon he’ll love her even longer.

“I love you too,” she whispers, and it sounds to him like forgiveness. 

Together, they learn to forgive themselves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope you all enjoyed this :) i know i did. i wanted to use a more romantic style - more descriptive and visual, which i hope i've achieved.
> 
> i actually have a headcanon that joyce cut her hair short with bangs when lonnie left, and her now having it long again without bangs is kind of symbolic of her getting her confidence back, finally. 
> 
> let me know what you think xx


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